


The Man in the Spoon

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Series: Spidey-shots, Spidey-shots, now they're done, thanks a lot <3 [58]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Early Mornings, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Life-Affirming Sex, Married Couple, Michelle "Heart-Eyes" Jones, Morning Sex, Nicknames, Peter "Happy to Be Here" Parker, Soft Dom Michelle Jones, Spooning, also (oops):
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: Peter keeps waking up as the little spoon.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: Spidey-shots, Spidey-shots, now they're done, thanks a lot <3 [58]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1368034
Comments: 34
Kudos: 133
Collections: Peter Parker's Thotumn 2020





	The Man in the Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> My second fic for Thotumn, organized by [spideysmjs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideysmjs/pseuds/spideysmjs)!
> 
> Today's prompt: **Early Morning**

“How does this happen?” Peter wonders, his first words of the day only slightly less formless than a hum. “I’m always the big spoon when I fall asleep.”

MJ laughs softly from behind him and continues kissing languidly across his shoulder. Their cheap curtains suck—too sheer for the slice of sunlight that greets them every morning, hot and golden as a cheesy piece of pizza—and she’s woken him up outlining the rhomboid of light with her lips. She kisses again where his skin is bright orange and he presses back against her mouth. Funny how he can sound like he’s complaining with the way he loves her sleepy shows of affection.

“It’s because I curl around you in my sleep. I have an instinctual desire to protect you, Puppy.”

She can get away with the nickname this early.

“Really?” He sighs happily as she makes her way to his neck.

“No. It happens because you sleep really deeply after coming home from a mission and it’s easy to crawl over you so I can do this…”

The hand MJ was resting lightly on his hip slips down, easing the elastic waist of his boxers away from his abdomen and reaching in to stroke him where he’s predictably hot with sleep and half-hard with whatever position he dreamed her into last night. Peter groans, rough and delicious, the sound like an aural spiral of shaved chocolate. As if she wasn’t already wet from the anticipation. It pleases her to please him.

“Did you do good?” she asks so softly into his ear.

“Home in one piece,” he breathes, totally relaxed against her as he trusts her to do what she likes.

“I’m so proud of you.”

MJ returns to kissing his neck, occasionally catching his skin between her teeth and giving a short tug, just to hear him suck in air. She cups the head of his dick. Feeling the wetness against her palm, she rubs in an unhurried circling motion, smearing him with his own arousal before taking him in her fist again and spreading it down his length. He makes a guttural noise, throat going taut under her lips.

“How come you’re not this sweet all the time, huh?” Peter asks, bucking his hips shallowly into her grip.

“I do the laundry when you leave your regular clothes all over the place in your rush to scamper out of here to be Spider-Man, don’t I?”

“Yeah.”

She leans up on her elbow to watch his face; his lips are parted, his cheeks flushed. Eyes: closed.

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” But MJ goes on before her husband, with his bliss-scrambled brain, can reply. “I don’t watch ahead on any of our favourite shows without you. I’ve improved my aim enough to throw at least three out of five darts right into the forehead of the picture of Jameson we keep on the back of the bathroom door. Those are sweet gestures.”

Peter chuckles airily at that, then moans. He taps the shoulder he’s lying on and she sneaks her hand through in the sweaty crook between his neck and the pillow, tangling their fingers together.

“Nobody asked you to do that,” he reminds her.

“But I take pleasure in it,” she says casually into the underside of his jaw. “Speaking of. The things I do for you when you get home safe and I’m still up… Sweet, right?” MJ twists her wrists and pumps faster.

“Not sweet,” Peter gasps. “Those things are _not_ sweet, and a lotta them are more like things you do _to_ me.”

“I don’t remember hearing this pickiness when I was blowing you last Wednesday.”

“I was barely through the window! I still had the suit around my ankles.”

He makes a needy noise and she shakes their locked hands apart to run hers down his opposite arm, finding where he has a firm grip on their fitted sheet. She relocates that hold to the back of her head, helping him tumble into the memory by letting him dig his fingers into her hair and tug like he did that night.

“I was glad to see you.”

“You let me come—” He chokes. “—come down your throat.”

“I was _very_ glad to see you.”

“God, yes,” Peter mutters, rocking through her fingers. “God, MJ, _yes_.”

“See, _that’s_ more the kind of thing I remember hearing.”

He breaks every hold but the one he has on her heart when he flips over and pins her. Though the movement is rapid, it’s unaggressive; his posture melts down like he can seep into her skin. With he way he’s crazy about her, that might be exactly what Peter believes. MJ shuffles her legs apart under his weight, grateful when he rests naturally between her thighs, grateful that he’s home. They don’t need to acknowledge her nudity. His boxers are an issue though.

“You gonna take these off?” she wonders between slow, seeking kisses, snapping at the band.

“I guess it’s looking like I probably should.”

“Unless you don’t feel like being involved. I could just…” MJ grazes her hand down. Her knuckles bump against his erection as she draws uneven rings around her clit. She doesn’t touch it yet, but he doesn’t need to know that: she moans his name for effect.

Immediately, he’s kicking and fumbling his way out of his boxers, tearing the sheet off them both in the doing, and allowing the sun to stripe their skin in more generous swaths.

But when he goes in, he’s slow. Their foreheads meet. She shakes as he smoothly angles her hips with his hand. Delicately, she scratches up the back of his head. This small relief is a familiar secret between them; no one else would guess that Spider-Man’s scalp tingles when his mask’s been pressing his hair down a certain way for too long. With fleeting brushes, Peter starts in on what he considers the only proper process for kissing her in the morning. MJ’s patient with him. She got the spooning, the neck kisses, the grope down the front of his shorts. She got him home, alive. He can do what he likes.

Light glints off his ring. He doesn’t always remember to slip it back on when he drags himself home from patrol, but when he does, she appreciates it. Pictures him patting at the surface of the dresser in the dark, looking down at her, asleep in their bed, and feeling so connected, even more when he wears the ring she was the first to put on him. No matter how many times he takes it off when he leaves in the suit—because he’s afraid of losing it, because he’s terrified of soiling it with blood on the nights he punches through glass or brick or flesh until his knuckles tear or his fingers break or he cuts up the back of his hand in an unintentional pattern of ragged spiderwebs—she smiles to see he’s put it back on.

MJ turns her head to kiss his hand, undamaged, running her lips over the ring as well. There’s an adoring whine that comes out of him like it’s been thickening in his chest, ready for the inevitable moment when he’d need to use it. She doesn’t just call him ‘Puppy’ because it begins with the same letter as his name.

While he’s making this sound, the sound she associates with unconditional love, he thrusts tranquilly. The work he does on her is unlike what he does in the city at night. There are no closing windows of opportunity with them as MJ massages the back of his neck between her fingers and thumb, kneading out towards his shoulder. He doesn’t need to dart from place to place. Apart from sleeping, this is the longest he might spend in one spot all day. Her husband hefts her hips a little higher and her chest heaves. She tightens her stomach to grind her clit against him.

“Feel good today?” he asks.

“It’s you,” she says, tingling and open. There is no time in their past or future, MJ’s sure, when he won’t feel good inside her.

“ _You_ feel unbelievable.”

Though, for an unbelievable feeling, Peter has a lot to say about it when he kisses her cheek and murmurs admiration into her ear. He keeps his tone soft, his voice level as the kick of his hips produces short, stern strokes that have her shaking. Letting the arm holding him up buckle at the elbow, he lowers himself onto her. No more space. He clutches her hip and grinds against her clit, never quite catching his breath with his face tucking into her neck. His humid panting and the heat of his body, the warm place in the blankets where they’ve been sleeping, it’s all too hot to bear. Still, MJ gasps, “More,” and his arm winds beneath her to grab at her back. She lets her own arms flop limply onto the sheet until he’s thrusting so fast that she throws them around his waist, howling his name to the ceiling and the sun.

Through her orgasm, she can hear and feel how he’s barely hanging on, body tense and groans curling towards sobs. She loves him so.

“Let’s see it, Big Spoon,” MJ taunts playfully, hair snarled across the pillow and heart still pounding.

Peter snorts a laugh before climaxing in jerky jolts that clap her between a pair of cymbals, the sensation of his final thrusts rippling through her. Pulling him close, she kisses at his slack mouth. Gradually, he relearns how to kiss her back, and his hand slides up to cradle her head. He holds on a moment too long—he always does—and they separate with greedy inhalations.

“I slept really well last night,” Peter huffs, “with you curled around me.”

“And how were your dreams?”

He trails his thumb along the curve of her cheek and MJ flattens his hand against her face to keep him there. She tips her chin up in inquiry. Peter smiles.

“Sweet.”


End file.
